I Glimpsed Nirvana
by LadyDorian
Summary: "Wubalubadubdub" means "I am in great pain, please help me." M/M fluff. Shounen-ai.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Rick and Morty_, I just quote it obsessively at inappropriate times. BALL FONDLERS!

Banged this garbage out immediately following 'Ricksy Business.' The Rick Dance made my nipples hard, but Rick's psychological problems made my heart soft. It's not even proper fanfiction, but I just had to get it out.

Borrowed the title from MUCC's "Nirvana," because if _Rick and Morty_ was a shoujo anime, that would be its theme.

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**I Glimpsed Nirvana**

"You're a mess, you know that?"

It's three in the morning, maybe four, maybe it doesn't even matter. Maybe time is irrelevant, serving no purpose save for creating memories of pain, of things lost, things that never could have been obtained in the first place, things...just _things_. He can't come up with better words than those—the ones that spiral through his dizzying thoughts, the ones that tumble over sloppy lips, drenched in spittle and nonsense: "I-I-blubb...lubble...wubba lubba...dub...dub."

He doesn't care if the boy can't understand. Better off if he didn't, really. One less emotion for him to numb into oblivion. He gazes up through heavy-lidded, alcohol-soaked eyes, through the haze of tears he swore he'd never cry, up at the stupid kid cradling his asshole grandfather's head in his lap, the kid who can't seem to give up—_won't_ seem to give up—the poor fool whose life he tramples on daily...

For what? Another drug to ease his sorrows? To make him forget all he'd seen, all he'd done, all he would do? The faithful companion to his misery? The pillow upon which he could rest his head, after barging into his room in the depths of the AM, drunk as fuck and ranting about nothing and everything and...and…

The kid's stroking his hair now, gently. He feels sick, not from the alcohol, but from the affection. He doesn't want this—doesn't _deserve_ this. He doesn't know which makes him angrier: The act of kindness itself, or his reaction. He doesn't want him to stop.

The fingers are smaller than he can remember. They caress his face, touching so little and so much at the same time. But it's always been like that with this one, hasn't it?

"R-Rick..." The boy whispers, stumbles, seems afraid of what he knows he's going to do. What he _wants _to do, to this broken, sick sonofabitch in his lap. Rick doesn't care, is too numb to care about how stupid he is for wanting it. He can barely move with all the weight pressing down on him, the booze and desperation and, fuck, _every inch _of this awful fucking world and all the awful fucking infinite worlds that serve as a piss poor amnesiac. But he manages to lift his arm, to brush the soft cheek hanging above him. _This boy. _The only one who can move him. He pulls him down, or more suitably, they move in unison, like two orbiting bodies drawn together by a surge of gravity, a magnetic field that cannot be escaped. Two radically different worlds on a collision course, bound for destruction. Their lips touch, for the briefest of moments.

It's a bittersweet moment, one that he knows will be erased by the alcohol and the bad memories and the sorrows to come. They always come. But for now, this is all he has. This is his paradise.

He meets the boy's gaze as they break apart, glimpses the smile on lips yet untainted by the wreck of his life. He knows that naïve wonder won't last much longer. He'll find a way to ruin it. Those words he'd spoken earlier were never truer, never more desperate. The pain only multiplies; he is cultivating it.

His hand begins to slip away, but the boy catches it, calmly lowers it beside him, putting each piece back in its proper place, a feat he could never accomplish on his own.

His lips are still too warm from the kiss, too weighted from such a sympathetic gesture, but he parts them to speak, words caught in his throat, gurgling in a soup of pleas and thanks and apologies that could never be bothered to come out right. "M-M-Mor..." The kid runs his fingers through the thinning hair splayed across his lap, waiting patiently. "F-f...fuck off...Morty."

The hands cease moving. Rick shuts his eyes, expects to feel the thud of the carpet beneath his head, _needs _it, wants to be thrown out like the garbage that he is. But Morty just dips down, presses his lips against his grandfather's forehead, before breathing, "I know, Rick. I'm here to help. Always."

He draws back slightly, leaving the ghost of his warmth against Rick's skin. Whether in form or memory, he's still too close, always too close. Rick forces his lids apart, stares dumbfounded into the kid's face, at a loss for words, for reason, for emotions. In the silence between them, the smile on Morty's face never falters. It's the last thing Rick sees before peacefully drifting off to sleep.

[[end]]


End file.
